Quiet Begging
by FieryMoment
Summary: It was a painting. Of him. And Sylar.
1. Quiet Begging

It was four in the morning. Who on earth calls people at _four in the morning_? He slowly crept towards the phone, unsure of what to do. The last time he had received a call at an outrageous time, it had been Sylar.

_Mohinder. I need your help._

These words still resonated in his head (and haunted his dreams) as he picked the phone out of its cradle, half nervous, half hopeful. Hopeful. _God, I am a sick man_. Not that that was his fault. He placed the earpiece against his ear, breathing harshly.

"Hello?" He inhaled sharply, waiting for the answer.

_I think I'm gonna do something bad._

"Mohinder!" He exhaled. It was Peter.

"Peter, do you have any idea what time it is?" He shouldn't be annoyed. He should be relieved. He wasn't.

"We have a …problem. Could you come in? Please?"

Mohinder sighed. Not many people could resist Peter's begging.

"Fine."

He dressed quickly, throwing on his brown jacket before locking the door as he left, He had wanted to get out of there anyway. It was too quiet without Molly who was at Matt's this weekend.

He could never get used to the Company building, so incredibly different from his apartment. The stark white walls appeared to glare at him, staring at the intruder. The floor echoed his every step, screaming out to all those who were still in the building. The lights beamed down at him, attempting to penetrate the beautiful caramel skin.

"Mohinder!" His head snapped to his left where Peter was standing. "Come in here!" Peter rushed back into the room from which he had come from. Mohinder sighed before running after him. The room was lit brightly like all the others and was empty except for the large rectangular object sitting in the middle, covered in a dark cloth.

"Promise me you won't freak out?" Mohinder sighed once again. Honestly, this man would be the end of him if he kept exhaling all the air out of his lungs at such a constant rate.

"Peter. I assure you I will not 'freak out,' as you say.' Americans.

Peter gave him a sheepish smile before tearing the cloth off the object.

Mohinder stilled.

It was a painting. Of him.

And Sylar.

There he was, lying on his back, legs spread open like a whore, shirt ripped apart as Sylar lay in between him, about to kiss is lover passionately.

_Oh. My. God._

"Mohinder?" He heard the voice, snapping out of the daze he had been in.

"Don't worry. We can stop this."

Mohinder shook his, walking towards the painting, outlining the painting with his index finger.

"That shirt," referring to the one Sylar was wearing in the painting, "It hadn't been his. It was Zane's"

"Zane? As in when Sylar…you two-"

"Yes. I burned that shirt a long time ago. But you already know that." He paused.

"Don't you, Mr Sylar?"

He turned around to face the lie standing in front of him. Peter – no, not Peter – grinned as the façade was removed. Warm brown eyes turned sharp, soft hair became spiky; the small smile became a shark like grin.

"You always did know me too well." Sylar smirked.

Mohinder smiled back.

"Yes, I do."


	2. Recreating History

He felt that hot mouth probe his own as he sensed somewhere that they had smashed the painting next to them onto the floor. _What does it matter when they could recreate history? _The painting of them by Mendez was nothing short of beautiful. His legs open to let his lover in, shirt ripped open so that skin could push onto skin, mouths about to clash as hot air expelled from their lungs as the tension around them grew. _Recreating history indeed. _His lover pushed him onto the cold floor, thrusting his tongue into his mouth as hands pinched, grabbed, explored every part of him. The cock thrusting onto him swelled along with his own as they fucked each other onto the floor. _Not enough. Need more. _He feels himself spread his legs open further as his lover's lips parted from his for a moment so he could rip his pants off. He pushed himself onto his elbows watching his companion tear the clothing off of him before being slammed back down. _Fuck_. That mouth was on him again, the hot cave attempting to swallow him whole as hands grabbed his hair and pushed his head back further in attempts to access his blazing lips even more. He felt himself being eased onto his stomach, and immediately missed the scorching mouth, the tongue that had pushed through his lips, a promise of what was to come. New sensations began to take its place – the feel of hands pushing him down, a hard cock pressing against the curve of his arse. He moaned as lips tenderly bit and licked his neck at a sensitive spot that no one but _he_ knew of. His body started to writhe underneath the larger, firmer frame that reverberated heat through his skin. A hand held firmly on his shoulder, as he felt the other one sliding down to cup his arse. Kisses trailed along his back before reaching his arse at which point he pushed back, hoping to feel the soft lips against him. And then his lover's mouth was right _there._ He cried out, caught between begging for it to stop and demanding more, yet knowing he had no choice either way as the licking turned to thrusting. As release almost befell him, the lips stopped as the other body reached back up to once again cover his body.

"You want this." It wasn't a question.

He nodded sharply.

"Yes."

The sound of a zipper opening broke through the air, penetrating the sounds of panting and skin slapping onto skin. He wasn't ready for it. The cock slammed into him without warning without preparation and, oh God, it felt so good. The scream tore through his lips as he was pounded into again and again relentlessly as though it would be their last. May be it will. _Oh God. _He hears sounds of begging – _fuck me harder, yes, please, just like that_ – and it's driving him wild. The cock keeps pushing in, hitting his spot over and over as he himself pushes back, impaling himself back onto it.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful." The words whispered into his ears.

He knows what he must look like - a debauched slut; his thighs spread wide open, moaning out in pleasure as he was repeatedly impaled with another man's cock.

A hand reached down, curling around his erection, slowly jerking against the rigid skin. The thrusts inside him became faster, harder more urgent, and he felt his own need build. A groan in his ear, the tightening of the hand around his cock, and he was gone.  
When he comes – _oh God, yes, please, so close_ – another scream tears through him except this time with his lovers name on his lips. Black spots swarmed his eyes as he rides the orgasm out, still impaling himself, not letting go, before releasing his hold and falling into the black.

When he opens his eyes, he is alone.

But he won't be for long because he knows that neither can last nor live without the other.

Mohinder smiles.


End file.
